


we still have tonight

by winchesters



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Grinding, M/M, Smut, ain't nothing wrong with a little bump and grind, clothed sex is that a thing?, dumb french hunks, mild dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire needs Enjolras in the worst possible way. And for once, Enjolras gives in. Smutty one-shot. Dry-humping is a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we still have tonight

**Author's Note:**

> I should be studying for Bio. Instead I'm writing smut about dumb French hunks.

No one loves the light like a blind man.

Grantaire reaches for him like a blind man, groping, desperate. They are in the stairwell of the Musain, and it’s past midnight and the other Amis are gone, having vacated this cramped space for the beds of pretty girls and witty girls. And Grantaire knows that he could have any drunken dancing girl, any gamin on the street, but it’s not their lithe bodies he wants between his sheets. He’s hungry for intimacy, a hunger so deep that his heart aches, his skin needs the sensation of another person dragging fingertips and tongue across it.  
“What are you doing?” Enjolras flinches away from Grantaire’s clumsy hands, nearly sending Grantaire crashing into the wall. The dark-haired drunk stumbles, Enjolras catches him, steadying him with strong hands.  
“Come ‘ere,” Grantaire slurs, and he reaches for Enjolras, takes him by that stupid tie that he always wears too loose, forever the unwitting tease. He presses himself against his friend, their lips crash together, Grantaire’s mouth hot and wet. Enjolras jerks back, and looks for all the world like a lost little boy. His eyes are wide, his cheeks flushed. For once, he’s at loss for words, unsure of what to do next. Grantaire’s hand is still around his tie, and there is a moment during which both boys stare at each other. Then Grantaire presses Enjolras against the wall again, one hand fisting in his shirtfront, the other pressed against the wall, caging him in. And Enjolras arches up towards Grantaire’s mouth, hands tangled in his wild dark hair.  
“Dieu,” Enjolras groans, pulling back. His mouth is red, his eyes glazed with lust. He looks utterly debauched, and Grantaire has to admit that it’s a very good look on him.  
“I hadn’t any idea what a good kisser you are,” Grantaire breathes, “you’ve been holding out on me.”  
He tangles their fingers together. Enjolras brushes his cheek.  
“Please,” he says, “come with me.”  
His eyes are wide, pleading, and so Grantaire does. He follows Enjolras down the stairs, out into the street, down the wide, empty avenue. The pavement shines like silver in the pale gleam of moonlight. They stop to kiss by the river, beneath a string of streetlights, on the landing to Enjolras’ cramped flat. Once inside, Grantaire presses him against the door with a growl, lips on Enjolras’ neck, hands sliding beneath his shirt and jacket. Something feels very right about this, about the way that Enjolras, always so stoic, so stony, bends like putty beneath him.  
“T'arrete,” Enjolras begs, pulling back. “Grantaire, you are drunk. Please, I asked you here to sleep off the wine.”  
He gestures to the narrow bed in the corner, the flat mattress and the thin blanket.  
“You mean to put me to bed?” Grantaire inquires, his words slurring together. Enjolras guides him backwards towards the bed, shoving him down.  
“Yes.”  
Grantaire removes his boots and jacket and vest, and then lays back and watches, smug, while Enjolras does the same.  
“I have work to do,” says the blonde boy, but his voice is weak, almost heavy with want. “You go to sleep, Grantaire.”  
Grantaire rolls onto his side and looks up Enjolras with pleading eyes.  
“You would make me sleep alone?”  
Enjolras groans and loosens his tie. He moves to drape it over the end of his bed, and Grantaire grabs his wrist and jerks him roughly so that he lands on Grantaire’s legs.  
“Ouch! What are you doing, you drunk rascal?”  
Grantaire manhandles Enjolras onto his back.  
“I believe I’m taking you to bed, monsieur.”  
Enjolras starts to protest, then moans as Grantaire grinds against him. Something hard is pressing against Grantaire’s stomach as he leans down to kiss Enjolras’ neck, wondering if he’ll leave marks that the other Amis will see the next day. Will they wonder who their ever-so-pure leader has been shagging? Will they ask?  
Grantaire grinds against Enjolras again, his cock painfully hard, and Enjolras throws his head back and groans again.  
“The virginal Enjolras, so debauched,” Grantaire smirks. “Whatever will people say?”  
Enjolras manages a glare.  
“They will say nothing,” he corrects, panting. “They will never know of this.”  
And Grantaire knows it to be true, and it hurts that no one will ever acknowledge the things they do in the dark, but they have tonight. They might not have tomorrow, but they have tonight.  
Grantaire responds by picking up the pace, grinding faster and harder. He’s certain that he’s going to come soon, he feels a familiar tug in the pit of his stomach. He looks down at Enjolras, pupils blown dark with want, mouth moving silently as if in prayer.  
“God,” Grantaire pants, and he kisses Enjolras hard, and Enjolras responds by biting his lower lip and then his neck, hard enough to leave a bruise.  
“Gr-Grantaire,” Enjolras moans, and he writhes desperately,. “Harder, please.”  
Grantaire obliges, until Enjolras’ hips jerk upwards, and he throws his head back and moans Grantaire’s name, his breath hitching. Grantaire comes not long after, whimpering ‘Enjolras’ as he climaxes.  
He collapses beside Enjolras, both of them breathing hard.  
“You’ll be my undoing,” Enjolras mutters, drawing Grantaire against him. His hands work beneath the drunk’s shirt, tracing patterns across his ribs.  
“And you’ll be mine,” Grantaire replies, quiet and sated. It hurts him, because he knows it’s true.


End file.
